(F&F1) Will You Dance with Me?
by Harper64
Summary: Set at the end of 'War Games' and the beginning of 'The Funk Hole' this story sees Foyle meeting a woman, Frances, in a hotel and their subsequent relationship. 'Foyle's War is created by Anthony Horowitz, no copyright infringement is intended.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle was not a happy man, despite the bright morning sunlight that flooded the hotel foyer. It was bad enough that the bombing of a neighbouring property on Sunday night had forced him to move out for several days; worse that every reasonably priced room to rent in the town was taken, leaving only the ridiculously expensive hotel in which he had spent the night; and now the French waiter, Henri, was explaining that part of the dining room was closed and guests were being asked to share tables. Foyle was unaware of this as the previous evening he had not dined at the hotel; following a spot of fishing with a friend they had eaten at a local pub. With a resigned sigh, he followed the waiter, whom he suspected had never set foot in France, across the room.

_'__Oh God, no,'_ he thought as he was led to a side table already occupied by a woman who looked to be in her late thirties, _'__a middle-aged housewife.'_

Endless conversations about rationing and the difficulty of getting shampoo loomed before him. And what was the woman wearing? She certainly was more exotic than the usual Hastings housewives. Her light brown hair was piled up artlessly and her blouse would have been more at home on a jazz singer, so brightly coloured was it. And trousers, what was the woman thinking? Henri indicated the spare chair.

"Mrs Cartwright," he exclaimed in his faux French accent, "I have been explaining to Mr Foyle the necessity of sharing the tables. I am sure you will get on well together."

He glanced at Foyle as if he did not quite believe his own words.

"Of course, Henri," the woman answered. Her accent was not local but had a hint of London about it, "it's not your fault, and I'm sure everyone understands the situation. And it's not the worst thing the war has forced us into, is it Mr Foyle?" She looked briefly at Foyle. Henri appeared so relieved that Foyle felt almost churlish at his previous curt response to the news.

"No, indeed", said Foyle as he sat down and buried his nose in the breakfast menu, short as it was, in an effort to avoid conversation. To his surprise, however, the woman made no attempt to engage him in aimless chat but picked up a notebook from the table and began to write, sipping tea as she did so.

She was putting the book in her satchel when Henri returned to take his order, and before he could answer she stood and picked up the bag.

"The scrambled eggs are good," she murmured as she passed, "Goodbye," and she was gone leaving a subtle trace of perfume behind her. Foyle noticed Henri inhale deeply and smile.

"Scrambled eggs it is then," said Foyle.

As he ate his breakfast he considered the day ahead; he was to be the referee at a Home Guard training exercise being held locally. Foyle had already encountered Brigadier Harcourt, their Commanding Officer, a somewhat pompous man. He smiled ruefully at the thought of working with him today.

Leaving the dining room to set off to work Foyle passed his new table companion. She and the young girl behind the reception desk were in deep conversation. Foyle realised that she was shorter than he had thought, and the blouse and trousers that he had taken exception to covered a trim figure.

_'__Mrs Cartwright,' _thought Foyle, _'__and where is the husband, I wonder?'_

That evening Foyle was in the dining room before his table companion, and took the opportunity to take the chair with its back towards the wall. He knew that he was being petty but the fact that the woman had ignored him so obviously that morning still rankled somewhat. He was not used to being ignored. After a little thought he realised that he was sometimes ignored, but usually by those who had something to hide.

He was just deciding whether the 'local fish' (noting that no particular species was mentioned) would be preferable to the 'meat pie' (again no provenance for the meat) when he became aware of the woman standing opposite him. Thankfully her attire was a little more conservative. Foyle's good manners brought him to his feet with a 'Good evening', but a similar response was not forthcoming.

"Mr Foyle," she replied, "it's an awful cheek, I know, but may I have that seat? I do so hate looking at a blank wall."

_'__And my ugly mug, presumably,'_ he thought.

He raised his eyebrows and decided to stand his ground. "So do I, Mrs, um, Cartwright, was it?" he answered, "and having a wall at my back feels more comfortable. I'm sure you understand"

They both stood silently for a long moment, until she laughed and said, "Right! Do you think anyone would mind if we moved the table round a little so that we both have a bit of wall and a view?"

_ '__A gracious response_' thought Foyle, as he took his side of the small table and rotated it slightly. He shifted his chair and held the back of it.

"And which seat would you prefer?" he asked.

The local fish proved to be well-cooked and tasty, the strawberry jelly (unfortunately without strawberries) acceptable and the pot of tea for two hot and strong. Grateful that there had been no discussion of rationing, Foyle was beginning to relax. Indeed Mrs Cartwright's account during dinner, of watching the fishermen bringing their catch onto the beach had been both descriptive and engaging. Remembering the notebook that morning, Foyle wondered whether she was a writer of some kind. He was just about to ask her when she rose from her chair, wished him a 'Good evening' and was gone again.

Frances closed the door to her room behind her and leaned against it. What was the matter with her? She had almost run from the dining room like an embarrassed girl, and girl she most certainly was not. At thirty nine years of age she was a mature woman and yet tonight she felt positively childish. It was the man with whom she had just had dinner that had had this effect on her, she knew. He had hardly uttered a word all evening and she had tried hard not to rattle on in her usual way, sensing that this would not be welcome. The lack of response from him made conversation hard work. But when she had spoken he had listened, oh so intently, to her; she could tell by his expressions which mirrored her narrative, that his whole attention had been on her, making her feel as if she were being tested at school. It was ridiculous – she dealt with people of all walks of life every day – why did he make her feel like this? In the end she had felt so uneasy that she had made her exit, hoping that he would not think her rude. She flushed as she remembered the way she had demanded the wall seat, then recalled the ghost of a smile and the twinkle in his eyes as he had moved the table and invited her to choose her chair. What a puzzling man he was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two **

Wednesday morning Frances took a deep breath as she entered the dining room, willing herself to be calm and composed. The table, she noted, had been set as it had been left the previous evening and he was in the same chair.

She smiled as she approached and he half-rose to greet her. "Good morning Mr Foyle. I see that our furniture arrangement has been approved."

"It appears so," he responded and continued, "May I apologise for my, ah, appropriation of said furniture."

Frances was somewhat taken aback. Her rehearsed apology to him now seemed inadequate. "No apology needed," she smiled, "It was me who was being unreasonable and I apologise for that, but we have an acceptable solution so let's say no more about it. I wonder if they have any eggs this morning."

Foyle was perplexed. Last night she had disappeared as if offended by his very presence, yet today she was all smiles. Perhaps it was not him and his insistence of keeping his chair, but some other situation that had prompted her hasty departure – some family business perhaps. She had been introduced as Mrs Cartwright and she wore a wedding band but was obviously in the hotel alone. Henri arrived with tea and toast ("No eggs today, sorry!) and Foyle pondered how to approach the topic.

"Are you here on business, Mrs Cartwright?" he asked casually, spreading his meagre pat of butter, although he privately thought that the bright knitted cardigan draped over the chair was not what was expected in an office.

"Yes, just until Friday, then I go home."

"And home is …?" enquired Foyle.

"London, the Elephant and Castle district. I have a flat in a Victorian terrace, small but comfortable."_ '__Goodness, why am I telling him all this? Shut up Fran!'_

"And Mr Cartwright?"

Again that look that made her want to tell him the whole messy story. But she restrained herself and gave the minimum information "He died. In the last war."

A look of pain briefly softened his eyes and he said quietly "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was a long time ago."_ '__Don't be! What kind of stupid answer is that? Watch what you're saying for Heaven's sake!'_

He didn't seem to have noticed, however, and went on with his questions. "And what kind of business are you in, Mrs Cartwright?"

She was ready for this one. "Research", she said firmly, hoping that the implication was that it was something confidential. It did the trick; their conversation moved on to the chance of rain.

As Foyle walked to work his mind was replaying the scene at the table. She seemed more than happy to tell him where, and how, she lived, but had clammed up at the mention of her husband_. 'Don't be!'_ What did that mean? Was she not sorry that he had died? Had he indeed died as she said or were there things to be discovered about his death? Was he, in fact, real or a fictitious husband? Foyle recognised that his enquiring mind was perhaps making more of this than it merited, but he could not seem to let it go. And what did 'research' mean? He knew all the tactics folks used to avoid telling the whole story. Yes, there was definitely more to be discovered about the intriguing Mrs Cartwright.

Frances sat on the grass in a patch of sunshine behind the church, enjoying the apple that she had bought for her lunch. She was appalled at how much she had told Mr Foyle about herself – something she was usually careful not to do. _'This evening,'_ she thought, _'__I shall forestall any questions with some of my own.'_ Henri had told her that Foyle appeared to work in Hastings so why was he in a hotel? _'__What's his job? Is he married? I'll be ready, Mr Foyle.'_ She lay back on the grass and closed her eyes in the hot sun thinking about her work.

She awoke suddenly, aware that she had been dreaming. She was flushed, not just from the sun but from the memory of her dream – Mr Foyle's blue eyes watching her as she peeled an apple, his expression both serious and challenging. Putting her cardigan back on, she returned to work.

Returning to the hotel late afternoon Foyle took the opportunity of an unattended reception desk to find the entry in the registration book. Mrs Frances Cartwright and an address in Elephant and Castle; so far so good. Climbing the stairs to his room he encountered Henri coming down. "Any recommendations for dinner tonight?" he asked, adding "You were right, you know, Mrs Cartwright and I are getting on well." As he'd expected Henri was happy to talk about her, but was unable to enlighten him on her work, except to say that she sometimes arrived looking a little dusty and dishevelled. Research indeed!

"Henri has assured me that there is beef in the beef stew" said Foyle after they bumped into each other in the foyer that evening, "Shall we go in?"

Fran noted that he was in more casual mode, a checked shirt, corduroy trousers and sports jacket instead of his usual suit with waistcoat. That, she thought, was her way into her interrogation. They ordered the stew and Frances began her offensive. "Were you not at work today, Mr Foyle?" she asked indicating his attire.

"I was," he replied, "but you were not, were you?"

"I most certainly was!" she retorted confused, "What makes you say such a thing?"

"I happened to be passing St Peter's ", he said levelly, "and saw you 'working' in the sun."

The confusion subsided, but the thought that he had watched her sleeping on the grass was strangely disquieting, especially in the light of her dream.

"It was lunchtime," she said defensively, "I am allowed a lunch break."

"From what?"

His question caught her unawares and she was answering before she realised. "From my research. I was checking parish records." Resignedly, "That's my job – genealogical research."

His eyebrows rose. "Really? "

Fran sensed his scepticism, suddenly felt a need to explain her work. "Yes, really. I work for a firm of London solicitors, you see. They specialise in wills and intestacy, you know, helping people write wills and store them safely. And when someone dies without leaving a will we trace the people who are entitled to claim the estate. It's becoming even more important now. The case I'm researching, for example – a local family, minor gentry, the parents make a will leaving everything to their son. Son dies in combat and before the will can be changed the parents are killed in an air-raid on a visit to London. It's my job to find out who will now inherit and present all the documents to prove it. So I search local records in register offices, churches and so on."

She paused, smiling, thinking how much she enjoyed the puzzles her work threw at her. She looked up at Foyle, and found him looking at her with an amused expression, realised that she was talking too much and too loudly. "I'm sorry" she said softly, "I just love solving the mysteries of family relationships. People don't always tell the truth, you know. It's so exciting when I find the person I'm looking for in the records. It's like being a detective."

In the silence that followed she remembered that she was the one who was supposed to be asking the questions. "So Mr Foyle, now you know all about my job. And what do you do?"

He smiled. "I'm a detective."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Later that evening Frances sat on a dubiously upholstered chair in the foyer watching Foyle at the bar ordering drinks. He wasn't tall but held himself well so that he appeared so, and he had an air of authority which, she presumed, came from doing his job. After her initial embarrassment following his pronouncement she was surprised when he'd invited her to have an after-dinner drink.

He took the seat opposite her putting a tray with two tumblers and a water jug on the low table. "One good thing about this place," he said "they still have a decent single malt."

Fran was not usually a whisky drinker but appreciated the gesture. "Thank you Mr Foyle."

"Christopher," he told her, "please, call me Christopher."

"And I'm Frances," she said, holding out her hand.

He took the proffered hand and shook it, firmly and for a second longer than needed.

Their conversation ranged far and wide after that. They spoke about books they appreciated, she admiring Virginia Woolf and he Graham Green; music they enjoyed, he liking Schubert and Chopin whilst she preferred Mozart and Bach.

"I just love that aria from Cantata 147, you know,' Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring'," Fran told him, "It's beautiful."

"You want to be careful who you say that to," answered Foyle, tongue in cheek, "after all, it is German music."

"Oh, what nonsense! Bach was dead long before Hitler was even born," she replied sharply, making Foyle smile at her indignation.

Their conversation moved onto the difficulties of being at war, although thankfully not too much about rationing.

"I was told today," said Foyle, "that the war doesn't matter because business is bigger and will always go on."

"Really?" Frances looked annoyed, "try telling that to all the people whose businesses have been lost in London and other places. Shops, offices…bombed out of business in this dratted war."

"I'm here because of a bomb, actually," said Foyle. "A house just up the road was hit and they turfed us all out, worried about structural damage."

"Us all? You don't live alone then? So where are your family?" she asked. Seeing a flicker of sadness in his eyes she quickly added, "If you don't mind me asking. Tell me to shut up if I'm being nosey."

"Not at all. I do live alone since Andrew, that's my son, went to university. Now he's in the RAF. My wife died some years ago. When I said 'us all' I meant all the close neighbours."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to pry," having asked the questions she found she was uncomfortable with the answers.

"No, it's alright. Andrew's a pilot; he's based just down the coast so I get to see him occasionally."

"You must be very proud….and terrified!"

"Indeed. Do you have children?" The question was asked innocently enough even though he had calculated that it was unlikely given his estimate of her age and the date of her husband's death.

An unreadable expression passed over her face. "No, no children," she said quietly.

Foyle's curiosity was piqued but he refrained from asking any more, instead bringing to her attention to a handwritten poster on a nearby wall.

"A dinner dance! How lovely. What a fine way to end my stay. I do love to dance, not that I get much opportunity."

If she was hoping for a response to her hint, there was none forthcoming. She sighed.

"Do you think that by Friday the food is so awful that the dance is to take people's minds off it?" she added.

Foyle smiled at that, making him look younger than what she guessed were his forty-odd years.

Henri came through a door at the back of the desk, and Frances jumped up. "Won't be a tick," she said, "just want to find out what's expected on Friday. After all, I don't travel with an evening dress and pearls!"

Foyle took the opportunity to gather his observations about her. She was friendly, but he sensed a certain reticence when she spoke to him. It had been there before she knew that he was a police officer, and he hoped she had no dark secret to hide from him. When speaking about her work she was enthusiastic and confident; she obviously had a broad knowledge and understanding of many things and wasn't afraid of stating her opinions. She was personable, too; had she had other relationships in the years since her husband's death? Ever a student of human nature, Foyle determined to get to know her better.

"It's OK, "she smiled, returning to stand by his chair, "no evening dress or black tie required. Apparently the dining room will be opened up to become the dance floor. And now I'm turning in – busy day tomorrow. Thank you for the drink. Goodnight Christopher."

She leaned across him slightly to return her glass to the tray and he caught a hint of her perfume, felt a gentle heat from her sun-bronzed arm.

"Goodnight", he said and watched her cross the foyer, wondering why he was reluctant to see her go.

_'__Face it Christopher,'_ he thought, _'__you fancy her.'_ It wasn't often that he surprised himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Descending to breakfast the next morning Foyle was disappointed to see a crumb-strewn plate and empty cup in Frances's place.

"Has Mrs Cartwright already left?" he asked Henri, wondering how many hours the poor man worked.

"She has, Mr Foyle," he replied, "She said that she had a busy day ahead of her." He put a fresh pot of tea on the table. "You glad I put you here, then?"

"Why do you ask?" queried Foyle.

"Well, she's just such a nice lady," said Henri, "It seemed a shame for her to be sitting on her own, you know. And I wouldn't have put some of this lot with her. " He nodded his head vaguely toward the room at large, seeming unaware that his accent had lapsed into one of local origin. "But you seem a proper gentleman, if you know what I mean."

Foyle scratched the back of his head. "How is she 'nice'?" he asked.

"She notices things," Henri answered, "like Elsie being upset 'cos her mum was taken bad. She takes the time to talk to us. Some folks don't even notice us, we're below them."

"Right, thank you Henri," said Foyle, "I'll tell her you said so."

He ate his meal in silence, Frances' absence looming large. It had been nearly ten years since his wife had died and in that time he had met many women, but none had fascinated him like Frances did. But why? She was not beautiful, although her features were appealing especially when she was animated about something; she certainly didn't spend a great deal of time 'titivating' as his wife had called it – her hair was just clipped back, her nails short and bare, her style of dress somewhat… unexpected. And yet he found himself thinking about her at odd hours of the day, imagining her poring through large dusty tomes and scribbling away in her notebook. He thought about her at night too; he flushed at the thought of the response that provoked!

She intruded in his thoughts many times that day - as he sorted through piles of salvaged paper collected by local children he imagined her sorting through old record books; as he ate his lunch he remembered seeing her lying on the grass. Sam, his driver, even asked if he was felling alright as he was so quiet. Frances had given him no indication that he was anything but a table companion and he wondered what her impression of him was - an aging policeman, serious, hair thinning…..and stuck in this place investigating missing livestock and racketeers. She may be glad of a table companion, but anything else? No chance!

Meanwhile Fran was wrestling with the guilt of having avoided him that morning. She couldn't have faced him sitting drinking tea as if they were mere acquaintances; not after the fantasies that had kept her awake last night_. 'Did that drink invitation have any significance,' _she wondered,_' __other than he wanted someone, anyone, to talk to? He hadn't mentioned attending the dance, would he?'_ A terrible thought crossed her mind…what if she went back to the hotel to find him gone, his home declared safe? She had had 'gentlemen friends' since Ron died, but none of them had attracted her enough to give in to the pressures of intimacy. Her voluntary work at the hostel for abused women had gained her a circle of female friends who were far more at ease than her when talking about sex. She had learned more from them than from her brief marriage. That and an active imagination had led to the daydreams that now featured a certain handsome police officer; however, she was not prepared for the intensity of her feelings at the thought of seeing him, hence the very early start. But, despite those feelings, there was still the fear that she would never be able to trust another man again – not enough to enjoy a full relationship, however much she was attracted to him.

_'__Pull yourself together, girl,' she admonished herself, "you can face him. He has no idea how you feel and no way of knowing other than you telling him and that's not going to happen!'_

Having had an early start Fran was able to leave early and prepare for the evening. Despite her denial of anything happening she dressed with care, nothing too garish, and took time arranging her hair. Using some of the precious remains of her make-up she felt herself armoured enough to enter the dining room.

He was sitting at the table, head down when she entered. He could not have known that she was there but as she crossed the room he raised his eyes and smiled at her. Her legs turned to jelly and it took all of her resolve to keep walking. He stood. "Good evening. You're looking very um…"

"Thank you," she said, "I got back earlier than expected so had a little extra time to get ready. I'm usually flying about and never leave enough time for such things! "She knew she was babbling but couldn't seem to stop. "I usually look a fright! You wouldn't believe how dirty some of the places…." She halted, startled, as he put a finger on her lips.

"Shh!" he said, "No need to explain. You look lovely." Then he sat, astounded at his own bold behaviour.

The flush rose from her neck to her cheeks as she sat down, buried her face in the menu and prayed for Henri to come and rescue her. Foyle, appalled at his action, decided to ignore it.

He continued as if nothing had happened, "What vegetables do you reckon are in the vegetable casserole?"

After that, conversation during dinner was somewhat stilted as she experienced the sinking feeling that she had made a fool of herself. Obviously touching a woman's lips was no great event for him, whereas she had reacted like a schoolgirl. He tried to keep her talking about what she had done that day, but that just made her more embarrassed to think that she'd arrived at the church hours too early in order to avoid him. She'd ruined everything; he wouldn't be asking her for a drink tonight.

Casting about for an innocuous subject she asked, "Have you any idea when you'll be able to return to your house?" She was unprepared for the effect this simple question had on him, as he muttered something about surveys and bracing. Never having seen him at a loss for words she felt even more guilty that she had obviously made him ill at ease.

_'__Christopher, you idiot,' _he thought miserably,_ '__Why did you have to touch her like that? It made her embarrassed and now she's wondering when she can get rid of you! Ask her for a drink, apologise and go home tomorrow, you old fool!'_

"Will you have a drink with me again this evening?" he asked, watching her face. When she started to shake her head he added, "Please, there are things I need to say to you."

Reluctantly she agreed and they moved into the foyer, taking the two-seater sofa, the only seats left. The bar area was busy tonight, loud with a group of what looked like a group of businessmen. He fetched the drinks and sat next to her. She could smell his aftershave, recognised it as Old Spice.

"I'm really sorry about earlier," he began, "I didn't mean to embarrass you. I, um, it's been a long time since I, um, I'm sorry." He was the one looking embarrassed now. "I'll be going home tomorrow," he finished lamely.

"Oh, I see," she spoke with her head down so he could not make out her expression. Taking a large gulp of her scotch, she coughed, "At least you won't have to suffer the infamous Friday leftover dish. Or the dancing."

Fran studied his face, felt a surge of affection for this quiet man who sat beside her, her attempt at a joke not lightening his solemn expression. "Well, if you won't be here tomorrow I'd better say this now."

She moved sideways the better to see him. "I'd just like to thank you for your company these last few days," she said, " I spend quite a lot of time in hotels on my own which can be lonely, but worse is getting stuck with a bore or such. But you have made my stay here much more enjoyable so thank you, Christopher."

Foyle's heart skipped a beat. Was she really saying that she had enjoyed his company? Perhaps not all was lost after all. He became aware that he should respond, managed to say, "Well, the feeling is mutual, um, I must say I have found it delightful talking to you."

A raucous wave of laughter came from the bar, making further speech impossible. Instead they looked at each other wordlessly, their perception of each other shifting slightly. Simultaneously they smiled and Foyle realised that he didn't want to go home at all, but wanted instead to hold her in his arms and dance with her.

"So you, um, wouldn't mind if I stayed on and escorted you to the dance, then?" He held his breath.

"Of course I wouldn't mind! In fact I'd like that very much indeed." Fran's heart was beating fast at the idea of it. A thought struck her, "So, your house is habitable?"

"Actually," he confessed, "it was ready yesterday, but the thought of an empty house couldn't compare with being here, um, with you."

Fran took another gulp of her drink and dared to believe that he actually was as attracted to her as she was to him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Foyle and Frances sat side-by-side on the sofa, both feeling better than earlier in the evening, their mutual misunderstandings now resolved.

The growing noise at the bar necessitated his leaning closer to make himself heard, "I apologise if I've been awkward about this," he said, "It's been a good many years since I've, um, courted a woman."

"It's been a long time for me too," she confided, accepting the arm that reached around her shoulders, and relaxing into it.

They remained in that position, both caught up in their own thoughts for several moments, when unexpectedly Fran felt his body tense. Glancing at him she realised that he was watching the group at the bar. Foyle released his arm from her and stood, just as the first angry voice was raised above the general hubbub. Fran could feel the panic rising in her as she watched the ugly scene develop, had to fight the urge to put her hands over her ears and leave. Foyle crossed the room without any haste, his slight form soon lost amongst the jostling men. Fran could detect no specific voice or words but the atmosphere changed subtly, the men calming and murmuring, the group breaking apart.

Suddenly he was back beside her, the whole room quieter, the bar area almost deserted, the crowd gone.

"What is it?" he asked, his hand on her arm, "You're shaking."

Frances shook her head wordlessly, unable to explain the panic she felt.

Foyle took her by the elbow and led her just round the corner to the empty stairwell. There he drew her to his chest, held her against him until the trembling ceased, noted how she fitted against him, her head tucked under his chin. "Better?" he whispered after a few minutes, "Feel able to go back in?"

Fran nodded, allowed herself to be guided back to the sofa. Foyle pressed her drink into her hand and waited. Eventually she was able to speak. "Thank you," she said,

"Tell me," was all he said and she suddenly knew that she could tell this kind, strong, patient man anything.

"It was those men…I thought there was going to be a fight. I'm not…, that is, I don't like…"

Sensing that there was more, Foyle waited, his eyes on her face.

"It was my husband, you see. He was loud.. and violent too. We'd only married because he was joining up, Ron and me. We were both very young and we'd been going out for a few months. Oh, I liked him well enough and I felt sorry for him because his dad was vile, a drunk and a bully. But Ron was sweet at first and he wanted to get married before he went to France. My dad wasn't happy about it, but I talked him round."

"We moved in with his mum and dad. I thought our wedding night would be like the movies…. what a disappointment that was! Ron wasn't bothered about me at all, he just did what he wanted and couldn't see why I wasn't as happy as he was. And once we were married he wanted a lot of things, you know, his tea on the table when he came in, his shirts ironed just so…. he got mad if his food was cold, even though he was late home from the pub. I didn't have anyone to talk to, wouldn't have anyway…In hindsight I realise that he treated me like his dad had treated his mum – it was the only way he knew..."

She looked at him but he had his eyes down, studying his hands. He hadn't asked for such an explanation, but she felt enormously relieved to be telling him.

"Well, he went off to France and I thought that when he came back things would be different. I'd found us some rooms so we'd be on our own, you see. But nothing changed. He liked things done his way, shouted when they weren't exactly right. Actually he shouted about a lot of stuff but it was when the shouting stopped I got scared…."

She took a long shuddering breath, "When we heard that he'd been killed I'm ashamed to say that all I felt was relief. It was the shouting, you see; it brings it all back even though it's been years. I can cope with it much more often now – then just when I think I'm over it ….. I'm sorry you had to see me like that. "

She shook her shoulders and sat up straighter.

"Anyway it's all in the past now," she said, her voice firmer, "Once I was free of Ron I got myself a job in the typing pool of a local factory, and I've worked my way up since then. Now I'm a senior researcher."

She waited for the inevitable questions. But Foyle said nothing, just put his arm around her and held her so close that she could hear his breathing.

Henri stood in front of them, his face concerned. "Apologies, Mrs Cartwright, Mr Foyle, but we're closing this area now. It is nearly midnight, I must ask you to move."

"Of course, Henri, we're going now" Foyle rose and helped Frances to her feet. Together they climbed the stairs and Fran stopped outside her room.

"This is me," she said, "Goodnight Christopher, and thank you."

"No thanks necessary," he said studying her face. He dared to lean in and kiss her, gently and briefly. "Goodnight."

Foyle slumped in the armchair next to his bed, his head in his hands.

_'__Oh, Roz, love, what do I do? How can I feel like this?'_

He'd really wanted to kiss Frances, enjoyed the short experience, but having done so, it now seemed like a betrayal of his wife and their love. It had been years since he'd been widowed and he had been forced to move on with life, just in the raising of his son. What would Rosalind have wanted? Actually, he knew; one of the last things that she had said to him was that he should not be alone. But he had been alone, especially since Andrew had grown, preferring the quiet familiarity of their home to the emotional turmoil that courting a woman might bring.

But now….. he had been attracted to Frances from the outset, and now he knew that what he felt was more, much more. The thought of her leaving for London on Saturday filled him with misery. He tried to imagine her in his home; she was so different to Rosalind that it was impossible. And Andrew, what would he say? He was always encouraging Foyle to 'find someone', but what would he make of her?

He knew little about her other than her job and disastrous marriage. And why was he imagining a future in Hastings when she had a job, home and life in London? But his feelings could not be denied – he wanted to be with her, to hold her as he had earlier, albeit in happier circumstances. He was falling in love, he realised, just as he had with Roz, and he was sure that Roz would approve.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Foyle was waiting on the landing when Frances opened her door. "Good morning," his expression was serious, "I just wanted to check that you were alright before going downstairs."

"I'm quite alright, thank you", she replied, "I actually slept well, considering. And now I'm hungry!"

Over breakfast they spoke little, each spending time quietly observing the other almost shyly. Nothing was said about the events of the previous evening, for which Frances was grateful.

"Better have a good lunch," Foyle teased, as they separated in the foyer, "dinner may be a bit of a disaster."

"I will," she laughed, "See you later."

"The bar, quarter to seven?"

"I'm looking forward to it," she said, leaving him to decide whether she meant seeing him, or having dinner.

As it happened Fran had no lunch at all, instead opting to continue working in order to finish early. Once back at the hotel she bathed and put on her favourite pale lilac silk dress, bought five years ago but still her best. Elsie, who cleaned her room, proved to be an aspiring hairdresser and put Fran's hair up in a much more elaborate style than she could ever have managed, earning herself a hefty tip. The last of the perfume and make-up was applied and Fran unwrapped the tissue paper from her only pair of high heels. Looking at herself in the mirror she hoped he would approve.

At twenty to seven, Foyle stood just outside the bar, watching the stairs.

_ '__Ye Gods, what a day,'_ he thought, _'__sometimes I wonder why I carry on with this job.' _

He considered the events of the day; first he had learned that a friend had been betrayed by his own son and was about to embark on a dangerous mission, then he had to deal with a former colleague who had planted evidence in order to ensure a suspect's guilty verdict.

_'__Let's hope that tonight is more enjoyable,'_ he thought.

He had considered popping home and getting his evening suit but decided that it would not be appropriate if Frances had no evening gown. Now, watching her descend the stairs, looking stunning, he regretted that decision. Her dress may not have been a formal gown, but it suited her wonderfully. His mouth was dry as he said, "You look exquisite." His choice of words was so startling that she felt self-conscious under his admiring gaze.

"Thank you, kind sir," she smiled, trying to cover her confusion, "you don't look so bad yourself." She was glad he'd worn a blue suit which emphasised the blue of his eyes.

He tucked her arm into his, noting that she was nearly on a level with him. "Shall we go in?"

The meal was surprisingly good; potato soup followed by vegetable salad with a horseradish sauce, and chocolate oatmeal pudding. The musicians played softly as the guests dined, the room filled with relaxed chatting. He asked about her family.

"Two older brothers and one younger," she frowned, "My mother died when Joe, he's the youngest, was born. I don't remember much about her. Dad didn't really know what to do with a girl, so I was brought up just like the boys." She laughed. "A woman teacher took me under her wing when I was about twelve, talked to Dad, helped me with 'feminine' stuff. She was the one that encouraged me to stay on at school, for which I am eternally grateful. Dad died three years ago, which is when I moved to London and got this job."

"And do you enjoy living in London?"

"It's alright. A bit chaotic sometimes, especially now," she looked out of the window wistfully, "I've enjoyed being by the sea this week. You're lucky living here."

Foyle's mouth twitched at the irony. He had made several failed attempts to transfer to the War Department in London. Staying here, however, would be much more attractive if Frances were in the picture.

Amazingly there was coffee to finish the meal, and the band began to play in earnest. Foyle ordered two single malts and they watched the first dancers take to the floor. "Will you dance with me?" he asked tentatively, "though I must warn you I haven't danced for quite a while."

"Just watch out for the shoes, they're the only heels I have left!"

Foyle had expected their first dance to be a little awkward, so was surprised when they came together comfortably. Her increased height made it easy for her to rest one hand on his shoulder and he held the other firmly in his. Although some couples were obviously well-schooled in the art of the foxtrot there were others who were improvising to the music. They were among the latter, with Frances following his restrained movement around the floor easily. Several dances later they broke off for a drink, Fran ordering lemonade and he another scotch.

A set of old-time dances followed, Foyle surprised that he remembered the sequence of the Veleta and St Bernard's Waltz. These were followed by the Gay Gordons which left them both laughing and gasping for breath. As they walked back to their table Foyle noticed a few tendrils escaping from Frances's hairdo, making her look even more appealing.

A set of progressive dances was announced and Fran looked at him expectantly. "No way," he said, "am I surrendering you to another man!" As they watched the dancers moving round the circle with a different partner for each sequence, Fran feeling a fluttering in her stomach at his remark. He looked so much more relaxed than usual, probably, she surmised, a result of the scotch.

The bandleader announced a waltz and Foyle rose as the music began holding out his hand to her. The dance-floor was crowded now, making it difficult to do much more than move on the spot. He felt her hair tickling his face, breathed in her perfume, subtle now, after the exertion of the dancing, overlaid with fresh sweat. Her skin was bronzed, covered, he noticed, with pale hairs… He adjusted his right hand to hold her a touch tighter and froze as he realized the effect that her proximity and his musings were having on him. Dismayed, he felt his erection hardening, had to fight an urge to press against her. He loosened his grip on her, backing away slightly lest she become aware of his condition. Desperately he tried thinking about other things to reduce his problem.

What the hell was he going to do about this? He tried guiding them towards the doorway, ready to excuse himself as soon as the music stopped. Hopefully, with a hand in his pocket, he could disguise the state he was in before she became aware of it. It was not to be. A waiter came through the gap behind Frances carrying a large tray, she tucked in her rear to avoid a collision and he felt her pelvis come into contact with his. Her eyes met his and widened slightly but her expression did not change nor did she pull away. He lifted his eyebrows and frowned in what he hoped was a 'Sorry, what can I do' expression. Time seemed to freeze for him until he heard Fran's voice next to his ear.

"It's getting really hot in here isn't it? Can we go out for a breath of fresh air?" She took his left hand in hers, allowing him to put the other in his pocket. As she led him through the foyer, past Henri who was preparing to do the blackout, he realised that she was cleverly holding him by her left hand so that he was forced to walk closely behind her.

"Just going to cool down for a moment," she said to Henri who reminded them to observe the blackout when they returned. He watched them go, a smile playing on his lips.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

From the road, the entrance to the hotel was up several steps and across a small lawn which continued around the side of the building. Fran led him round this corner to the side of the hotel where flowers beds, bordered by short hedges formed a small garden for guests. The curtains were being closed in the dining room inside. They could hear the muffled music playing.

"Thank you!" Foyle said, "God, please forgive me; I am so sorry about this." His hand was still in his pocket. The last of the light from the dining room was extinguished, leaving them in the gathering dusk.

"No need for apologies," replied Fran, "It happens."

Her curt response made him feel even worse.

"Not to me, at least, not for a very long time. I don't want you thinking I can't control myself…" The words 'like your husband' went unsaid. He hung his head, ashamed of the way his body had betrayed him.

Frances realised that she felt perfectly safe, despite the physical symbol of her fear being obvious; decided that if she was ever to take a chance it was with this man. She stepped closer and raised his head with a finger under his chin. "I'm not offended, if that's what you think, Christopher," she murmured, "In fact, it's quite flattering." Her fingers moved until she was holding the side of his face.

_'Oh, Frances,' _he thought,_ 'I want you so much.'_

As if he had said it aloud, she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his, "Very flattering, in fact."

It took two hands to hold her and kiss her thoroughly, and if he felt her pressing against his stiffness it just made the whole thing more pleasurable.

.

It was completely dark by the time Fran pulled herself away from him, breathing hard and hotter than when they'd left the dance. Christopher stood with his back to the wall, between the windows.

"Henri will think we've got lost in the blackout," she said, tucking even more strands of hair behind her ears. "D'you think we ought to go back in."

"I'm going nowhere in this state", said Foyle ruefully, "You go on ahead, give me a minute." He wondered if she understood the implications of his remark, discomfited at the necessary action he was about to take.

Forever after, Fran wondered whether it was the effects of the whisky or the headiness of all the kissing that made her say teasingly, "Go on ahead? Oh, come on, Christopher. If I contributed to the problem it's only fair that I should help you, um, resolve it." Her hand moved towards his straining trouser front.

"No!" he said sharply, grabbing her wrist, then more gently "if you touch me now something might happen that hasn't happened since I was, oh, fourteen."

"You do it then," she whispered as she moved in front of him, hiding their actions from anyone who should happen upon them.

He shook out his handkerchief and unbuttoned his fly. Reaching down, he liberated the hot hardness from his clothing and covered it with the white fabric. Then he stopped, appalled at what he was doing.

_ 'Bugger,' _he thought, _'This isn't me. I can't do this! We could be arrested for indecent behaviour!' _

But then her fingers curled around his shaft and gently squeezed and he found that he didn't care, he could wait no longer, "Go on then," he said hoarsely, "Please!" It took less than half a dozen strokes before he felt the sensation building; then he was contracting, the pulses of his release making his whole body shake.

.

It was strange, thought Frances, returning to a dance after such an act of intimacy. It amazed her that people were not staring, aware of what had just happened. But no-one was any the wiser; they were just another couple, dancing, chatting and enjoying the evening.

_ 'If only they knew,' _she thought_, 'the room would be full of moral outrage.' _

She didn't care – Christopher wanted her, he had laid himself bare to her, emotionally as well as physically; they had shared something that her husband would have dismissed as worthless, but which was, to her, an act of trust as much as one of need or desire.

They danced closer than before, flirting, touching, until Fran thought she would burst with desire. Christopher explained that it was a fear that she may think him demanding that had made him embarrassed.

"I didn't want you to feel intimidated," he said, "Not all men are like your husband."

"But you're nothing like him," she protested, "the difference being that I know that you would never do anything that I didn't want you to,.… you wouldn't, would you." A sudden insecurity struck her.

"I wouldn't," he told her sincerely.

.

The final dance found them wrapped in each other's arms, swaying to the music.

"This has been a magical evening, Christopher," she said, "I don't want it to end."

Neither did he, but it gave him pause to think about exactly where the relationship was going, and how fast. If invited tonight, would he, could he, resist?

"Nor do I," he said, "in fact I would very much like to see you again. May I visit you in London?"

"Of course, that would be wonderful."

.

Music and applause over, they sat to finish their drinks. Foyle was just anticipating seeing her to her room and indulging in a lengthy goodnight kiss when the girl from Reception came hurrying across to him.

"Mr Foyle," she said urgently, "There's been a call for you from the police station. Your son," Foyle's heart lurched and he struggled to breathe. "He's in Hastings hospital. There's a car on its way for you."

He stood, looked helplessly at Fran. "Go on," she said, "he needs you."

"But..," he had no words to express the turmoil of emotions he was feeling.

"I'll leave you a note with my details," she said, "just go."

She watched him stride across the floor, his expression worried and confused. Her heart went out to him and, after so many years, she made the decision.

"Christopher," she called and followed him, "If you're back before breakfast, knock on my door. I'm a light sleeper, I'll hear you." He nodded, unable to answer, and left.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Fran closed the curtains carefully, switched on the lamp and slipped the lilac silk over her head. Throwing it over the chair, she kicked her shoes under it and threw herself onto the bed. A confusion of thoughts filled her mind. The sensible, mature part of her understood why he'd had to go; the selfish part cursed the bad luck that had taken him away from her.

_'__Pull yourself together, girl, and stop being so maudlin,' _she told herself._ '__You'll see him again, even if you have to wait a while.' _

That reminded her, and she took paper and an envelope from the drawer. The note gave him the address of her flat and that of her work. She had no personal telephone but gave the office number, her boss' name, and the best time to ring and, after careful consideration, she decided to leave it at that.

.

She prepared for bed and lay on top of the eiderdown, calmer now and ready to analyse the evening's events. Had they actually done that in the garden? Now that she was not so caught up in the excitement of his nearness she could not quite believe it. It may have been a long while since he'd had any female company, but he was none the worse for it. God, that had been so…..exhilarating. She'd experienced sensations that she'd heard about but were unknown to her. She wanted him to make love to her, something she never thought she'd ever want again after Ron. When Christopher had kissed her she'd found herself responding eagerly, and realised that she was wet with desire. Please, please let him come back tonight!

.

It was half-past two when Foyle arrived back at the hotel, stopping briefly to speak to the worried-looking receptionist who'd given him the news. As he climbed the stairs slowly he considered Fran's last words to him. If he knocked now surely she'd be fast asleep. His steps sounded loud on the threadbare carpet. He stood outside her room, tapped the door softly, not expecting any response. The door opened and she stood there, a brightly coloured thin robe wrapped around her, her hair loose.

.

Fran was awake as soon as she heard the sound outside her door. Grabbing her summer dressing-gown she hurried to open the door. Christopher stood there, wearily holding his shoes, his face unreadable. Her arms went around his neck and they stood for several seconds not moving or speaking. She sensed the cool night air on his clothes and shivered. "Andrew?" she asked gently, dreading the answer.

"He'll live," a ragged breath, "he had to crash-land and he's been bashed about quite a bit, broken a few bones…needs to stay in hospital a bit….but he'll be alright."

"Thank goodness. Come in," she said, taking his hand and guiding him in, closing the door behind him. "I, um, liberated some scotch from Mary the receptionist, Sit down and have a drink."

"In a moment," he said, "right now all I want is this."

He took her in his arms and kissed her, tenderly at first, but with increasing eagerness. She responded, holding him tight, tentatively opening her mouth to allow his tongue to explore cautiously. He shrugged off his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat, his mouth on hers all the time, his body responding to her enthusiastically. Then, with great effort, he released her, his fingers trailing down her arms. He sat on the dressing-table stool, picked up the previously offered drink.

.

Fran stepped into the space between his legs, kissed his forehead. "You look very uncomfortable," she said, looking pointedly at his straining crotch. "Can I make you more comfy?" She took his drink, removed his waistcoat and eased the braces from his shoulders.

Then she sank to her knees and began to unbutton his trousers, loosened the waistband and pulled. "Stand up a second," she instructed him, standing to pull him up. After the emotions and events of the evening he was tired, worried, in a haze of desire and helpless to resist. It was easier to do as she said, his trousers and underwear falling round his feet. He kicked them away and sat down, his hands around her waist.

She surprised him, then, by straddling him, his swelling trapped erect between them. Her gown had fallen open revealing a short slip which rode up to the top of her thighs with a pair of loose silky French knickers beneath. Foyle thanked God that it was had only been a few hours since their last encounter; without that relief he would be in serious difficulties now. As it was, he managed to find a still lucid part of his mind, said "Frances, do you think this is wise?"

"Christopher," she replied huskily, "of all the emotions I have experienced this evening I can assure you that 'wise' has not been amongst them. I want you. Now."

He began to kiss her again, moving his body against hers, his fingers endeavouring to find the small firm spot that he knew hid beneath those knickers. He knew when he had; she began to make small noises of pleasure and he felt an increase of moisture through the silk. His hand cupped her breast, making her gasp; his fingers teased her nipples until they were hard. The urge to enter her was unbearable. One hand pulled aside the wet silk and, oh so gently, one finger probed her warm folds. He heard when her breathing changed, coming now in short gasps, her thighs moving further apart, her fingers threading through his hair. "Sure?" he breathed and was answered with a raising of her hips, releasing him, allowing him to guide himself into her. She was ready; his entire length eased in slowly and easily; he began to move as much as their position would allow. His hands returned to her breasts, his lips found her neck, ears, throat. He knew she must be close, but her climax seemed to elude her. In a moment of clarity, Foyle realised that it was unlikely that she had ever experienced her own sexual fulfilment, and, despite his own rising need, he was determined that she should. Carefully he reached down and found the sensitive spot again, stroked it firmly and with increasing pressure. Her legs tightened against him, as he felt her climax begin. A concern buzzed at the back of his mind that she may shout out, wake other guests, but he could not bring himself to care. She did cry out, but her face was buried in his neck as the waves of ecstasy pulsed through her body, bringing him to an equally euphoric conclusion.

Several moments passed before he asked "Are you all right?" She raised her head and looked at him, her eyes dark with completion.

"Better than all right," she smiled, "That's never happened to me before. What did you do to me?"

Foyle took great satisfaction in saying firmly, "What I did, Frances my dearest, is show you what making love should be like."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Foyle picked up his clothes and began to dress.

"What are you doing?" asked Fran, emerging from the bathroom naked, he knew, under her robe. "Going back to my room," he hesitated, "in case, you know, Andrew should, um, take a turn for the worse. They need to know where to find me."

This made perfect sense but, "I was hoping you'd stay the rest of the night, what's left of it anyway."

"You know I would if I could," he said, "but I daren't take the risk." He paused. "Come with me."

"What?"

"Come and share _my_ bed," his look was entreating.

Which is why, five minutes later, they were tiptoeing, half-dressed along the landing to his room.

"I'm so glad that I made that decision last evening," said Frances, as they lay facing each other in his bed.

"What decision was that?" asked Foyle.

"Well," she said, sitting up and holding her knees, "I decided that I couldn't go on being afraid of, you know, intimacy, for the rest of my life. And I decided that you were the one I could trust."

"Very glad that you did," smiled Foyle, astounded at the implications of her words. "So there's been no-one since your husband?"

"No, and I must say, I didn't know if I could go through with it, even though I really wanted to. I think it was seeing you there holding your shoes that did it. Considerate to the end!" she laughed.

"Well, I am honoured," he said, kissing her shoulder, "and very glad that you were the one that helped me remember the delights of being with a woman."

"You mean…." She couldn't bring herself to ask.

"No-one since Rosalind," he smiled, "until you."

.

They did manage a couple of hours sleep, and their love-making the next morning could not have been more different than the urgent coupling of the previous night. Frances had never felt such gentle affection, such understanding of her needs. She was determined to please him this time, and succeeded, making him come unexpectedly with some massage of her own. Then, as he was still inside her, twitching, he did the same for her. The result was gratifying all round.

"What time is your train?" asked Foyle, stroking her hair as they lay together.

"Ten forty," Fran answered, "Why, will you see me off?"

"I can't, I'm afraid," he frowned, "I have a meeting to attend."

"Never mind," she said "Think of me in your meeting, "

"Best not to, don't you think," he said, raising an eyebrow.

.

Fran managed to return to her room without being observed, and they arrived at breakfast separately. Anyone watching them at breakfast would have seen no difference in them to any other day. Fran gave him the note with all her information and he stated his intention to visit the following Saturday. They spoke about Andrew and his future. At last, breakfast over, they faced the inevitable.

"Anything you'd like to do or see while you're in London?" Fran asked, reluctant to leave.

"Only you," Foyle confirmed, "In fact, I don't know whether I can wait until Saturday. I'm actually in London on Wednesday – official business. We could meet when you finish work, would that suit you?" He stroked her hand on the table. "And if there's an early train the next morning perhaps I could, um, stay the night?"

"Of course! The sooner the better," she smiled, "What will I do without you?"

His answer was a smile and a raised eyebrow.

.

They left the dining room together and walked slowly up the stairs. Foyle fetched his bag from his room then knocked on her door. She was packing, the lilac silk dress lying on the bed. He brought it to his face and inhaled her scent. God, he would miss her, even though they'd only known each other a few short days – not even that really, just a few hours a day. Putting down the dress he pulled her to him wordlessly, and they stood holding each other for several moments. "Frances," he whispered, "I love you," then kissed her softly and deeply.

"I'm so glad," she whispered back, "because I love you, Christopher Foyle."

He closed the door behind him.

.

No, no-one watching would have seen anything different, but Henri was not just anyone. He had seen the twinkle in Foyle's eyes, the lingering looks, the glow that emanated from Mrs C.

'Yes,' he thought to himself, 'they are getting on very well indeed.'


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Fran stood on the pavement outside her work anxiously. He was a few minutes late, but that was not what was worrying her. Last week had been wonderful, but getting back to her everyday life had made their time together seem unreal, like a dream. Did he feel like this, too? He'd said he loved her, but would he feel the same now? She had been like a cat on hot bricks all day at the thought of seeing him again.

Then he was standing in front of her, his face creased with a worried smile.

"Hello," he said, and at the sound of his voice she was reassured.

"Hello, welcome to London," she answered, "It's good to see you again."

A look of relief settled on his face. Had he felt the same as her?

"Have you eaten?" she asked, and when he shook his head continued, "Good, I've reserved a table for later. Come on, shall we go for a walk?" She held out her hand. It felt very strange to be walking with him through streets that she knew so well.

"What have you been doing today?" Fran asked him.

"Oh, boring official stuff," he replied, unable to tell her anyway, "Killing time, really until we could meet."

.

.

Their table for two was squeezed at the back of the tiny room of the French restaurant. Red and white check cloths were on the tables, candles in wine bottles flickered and the food smelled enticing. The tables were so close together that their legs were rubbing against each other, making Christopher aroused. But he didn't care. They were here together, the attraction they'd felt the previous week was still in evidence. The food was good, the atmosphere romantic and he was looking forward to being with her tonight. When he told her this, however, there was a reticence in her response that worried him. Walking to her flat in the darkness he stopped, pulled her into a shop doorway. She accepted his kisses but not as enthusiastically as he had hoped. What was the problem? He fretted about it the rest of the way.

.

.

Her flat was, as she'd described, small but comfortable. From the ground floor the stairs led to her front door. Inside was a landing with a living room on one side, and bedroom on the other. A small kitchen and tiny bathroom looked out onto a yard at the back. The living room was sparsely furnished but decorated with a variety of objects and fabrics which somehow complemented each other, there were books and papers bursting from a small bookcase and under the widow stood a sewing machine on its stand.

"This is very, um, you," he remarked thinking how old-fashioned his own home seemed in comparison.

"I like it," she replied, finishing the blackout routine and offering him a scotch.

"However did you get hold of this?" he asked, impressed that she had remembered his mention of his favourite.

"It's not too difficult," she answered, pleased that she had surprised him, "sometimes it's who you know!" Foyle did not want to know too much about that, and conversation ceased as they sat side by side comfortably.

.

.

His drink finished he took her hand, "It's getting late," he said softly, pulling her to her feet, "shall we go to bed?" To his surprise tears sprang into her eyes.

"What is it?" he asked, "Are you all right?"

She rested her head on his chest. "I'm so sorry, Christopher," she said, "you've come all this way, and I've been looking forward to being with you, and now….well, we can't. It's, um, that time of the month."

Foyle was stunned. This was something that he had not even considered. And last week…..he had taken no precautions, was sure that she hadn't….Oh, God, what a risk they'd taken.

Fran looked at him, was amazed to find him looking so upset.

"I thought… I didn't think…" he began, "I don't know what I thought. God, I put you at risk and it didn't even cross my mind. I am so sorry." He was agitated now at the thought of what might have happened. Thank God, it hadn't.

"No, no, there's no risk," she reassured him.

"But if it's, um, that time, you're obviously still likely to, um,…" his words tailed away. This was not the kind of conversation he was used to having.

"No, I was told a long time ago that that I'd never have children," there was almost a sob in her voice, "I've learned to live with that."

Foyle's worry visibly eased and he was quick to put his arms around her.

.

.

But he was not in his line of work for nothing and as they stood quietly together his mind was working. Eventually he asked her, "Who told you that you couldn't have children?"

She looked up, surprised at the sudden question, "A doctor, of course."

"And you saw the doctor because…" his head tilted slightly as he awaited her reply.

Frances did not answer, but looked at him. He had his answer.

"You lost a child, didn't you?" he asked softly, "What happened?"

"I was six months pregnant when Ron came home on leave. He wasn't happy…said we didn't have the money to have a baby…he wanted the bachelor life but with a wife to look after _him_, not a child."

She took a deep breath and carried on. "We argued one night when he came back from the pub, he dragged me upstairs…. It was my own fault, I knew he'd be mad but I couldn't bear him touching me…he was really angry."

Fran looked at Foyle, saw that he was standing rigidly, his fists clenched. She turned away before continuing.

"He pushed me hard, and I fell down the stairs. I was knocked out for a few minutes and when I came round he was kicking me in the stomach. The pain was unbearable…there was blood everywhere, I passed out…he got scared, called the midwife….she knew what had happened, of course, and called an ambulance."

Tears were streaming down her face as she forced herself to finish. "I went into labour properly that night…I had a little girl….the doctor wanted to take her straight away, she wasn't….. alive, you see, but the midwife let me hold her for a few seconds….Elizabeth, she would have been named Elizabeth and I would have called her Lizzie."

She stopped, too upset to look at him.

Foyle knew the type, had seen similar cases through the years in his work, but could never understand how any man could do such a thing. Never a violent man, he was nevertheless sure that her husband, had he still been alive, would have suffered at his hands.

Frances was speaking again, "We told everyone it was an accident; that I'd tripped and fallen. I think Joe suspected, he always knew me best, but he never said anything….Anyway, that's when the doctor told me there was internal damage and …."

She turned to find Christopher standing right behind her, his arms ready to hold her tight.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Foyle awoke very early to the smell of bacon frying. Remembering the previous night's conversation, how they had gone to bed and just held each other he was unsure of how Frances would be. They had heard air-raid sirens in the night too, but not close enough to alarm them. He padded into the kitchen in his pyjamas and found Fran at the one ring stove with bacon and mushrooms in a pan. She was wearing the robe he remembered from the hotel.

"Bit of a treat, this," he said lightly, "having breakfast cooked by a beautiful woman." He ducked as she waved the metal fish slice in his direction. "And mushrooms, where on earth did they come from?"

"I told you," she smiled, "It's who you know!" That smile told him all he needed to know.

"There's nothing I should worry about here, is there?" he asked, "I wouldn't like to have to arrest you."

Fran laughed and served them both with a very reasonable portion of mushrooms to go with the small rasher of bacon. They sat on stools at a tiny fold-down table in the kitchen.

"When I was growing up," she began.

"In a house full of boys," Foyle supplied.

"Yes. Well, one day I was rooting around in the attic when I found a sewing machine. I told Dad, he said it had been Mum's and I could have it but neither of us had any idea how to use it. I asked around and found someone who taught me how to thread it and oil it and so on."

"What's this got to do with breakfast?" interrupted Foyle.

"You'll see. I found that I was actually quite good at making things. I had a bit of a talent for being able to make a dress without a pattern, copying the latest fashions and things. People were soon asking me to make all sorts of stuff."

"Mushrooms?" prompted Foyle.

"Well, now that you can't get material for toffee, I use old clothes and re-vamp them, as it were. People are really grateful but often can't afford to pay me. So, instead of being paid cash I get all kinds of things, like bartering. That's how I got the mushrooms!"

Foyle was impressed with her skills and enterprise and told her so with a hug, before dashing off for his train.

.

.

As luck would have it there was no train – the bombing had destroyed some of the tracks. It was hours later when Foyle eventually arrived in Hastings, having telephoned to ask Sam to pick him up from the bus.

That day passed with himself and Milner, his sergeant, busy with cases of food looters and a missing man, although his thoughts often strayed to Frances and what she had told him. On Friday, however, his routine was shaken by a visit from Chief Inspector Collier, accusing him of sedition.

"I'm suspending you from duty pending investigation under Section 39A of the Defence and Regulations Act," stated Collier, going on to explain that the offence took place in an air raid shelter on Wednesday night. Foyle, of course, denied being there, fervently hoping that he would not be called on to prove his whereabouts and compromise Frances.

With no alternative Foyle was forced to comply with the suspension, was told that he was not to leave Hastings. He returned home and kept himself busy sorting out paperwork in his bureau. That afternoon he visited Andrew in hospital, wondering whether he should tell his son of his decision to propose to Frances. The opportunity never arose, but that evening Foyle did look out his mother's engagement ring and wonder whether it would fit on Frances' finger.

.

.

Having intended to visit Frances that weekend, and now unable to do so, Foyle was already in a surly mood when Collier knocked on his door the next day. He felt justified in not admitting Collier to the house, so the two men talked as they walked into town. If he was hoping to make Foyle feel better, Collier's plan did not work and Foyle ended up even more annoyed. Someone was making mischief and he intended to find out who.

A visit from Milner, bearing copied notes from Collier's papers, made Foyle more determined. He would go to London and find out the truth.

_'__If I can sneak out tonight,'_ he thought_, 'perhaps I can spend tomorrow with Frances and deal with this mess on Monday.'_

Getting out of the house without being seen by the constable posted outside was not difficult. Foyle smiled as he thought about Andrew who believed his 'escape route' from his room, via a tree, into next door's garden was a secret from his parents. He made his way to the bus station and took a bus to board a train in Eastbourne, knowing that he would not be recognised there.

.

.

It was very late when he knocked on Frances' door.

"Who is it?" came her voice from inside the flat.

"It's me, Christopher. May I…." Before he could finish the door opened and she was pulling him inside.

"Oh, Christopher, I was so worried about you. I telephoned your office Friday afternoon and your sergeant said you were at home but he wouldn't say why. I thought you must be ill or something. Then I tried calling you at home that night and yesterday but there was a fault on the line and I couldn't get through. Are you alright?"

"All the better for seeing you," he answered.

Frances made a pot of tea and they sat talking, he telling her about his suspension and why he needed to prove that the person in the air-raid shelter had not been him.

"If you need to say where you were, you must," she told him, "I don't care a fig about what people may say!"

"Well, hopefully it won't come to that," he replied, "let's forget it for now. I'm sorry I had to wake you."

"I didn't mind in the least," she reassured him. "Now I'm going back to bed. Are you coming?"

They made love that night, slowly at first and then with increasing fervour. As they lay in each other's arms afterwards he realised something.

"Fran, my love, we, um, finished together that time, and without any, um, extra ….."

"I know," she smiled brazenly, "I've been practising."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Sunday morning, breakfast washing-up done, they caught the tube and Fran introduced him to the sights and sounds of London that were a million miles from the government buildings that he was used to. It felt very strange to Christopher to not be going to church, but he was happy to be spending more time with Fran. They browsed dusty book shops, picked over bric-a-brac stalls and watched the river churn past in the sunshine. They ate in a small café where Frances seemed to be well-known and where there was a lot of laughter, sat by the bandstand listening to the music in the park. Foyle recognised that this was what was missing from his life. Going home from his job and being alone, he tended to think of work overmuch. Whereas today… he could not remember such a joyful day in his life, and knew that he did not live without this woman at his side. As they sat in her flat watching the sun go down he told her so.

"Fran," he said, "Marry me."

"What? Give up everything that I have here and move to Hastings?"

His heart sank as he realised exactly what she would be giving up if she accepted – was it too much to ask?

"Yes."

He almost missed her answer so concerned was he at the sacrifices she would have to make.

"Yes," she repeated louder. Much to Foyle's relief the ring fitted perfectly.

.

The remainder of the evening was spent working out the practicalities of her move. She would, they decided, hand in her notice the next day, both for her job and her flat. Her belongings would be crated up and sent to Hastings by train and she would follow as soon as she could.

"You'll have to find me somewhere to live," she said, "until we can get married."

"You'll stay with me," said Foyle, "no arguments."

"I can't do that, Christopher. I know I said that I didn't care what people say, but in the place where you work? You need to maintain your own reputation."

"Look, I have a spare room as well as Andrew's room so you would be staying with me quite innocently." His expression said quite the opposite and she felt a surge of love for him.

"Mmm, we'll see," she said, curling her legs up on the sofa so that she was facing him. She put her hand round the back of his head, stroked his hair, so soft, and kissed him.

Foyle leant back, relaxed, enjoying the sensations of arousal that she provoked in him, sensations that he had been denied for so long. Tonight it was she who took the lead, unbuttoning his shirt and caressing his chest, kissing his throat and making him groan with pleasure. Charmed by her initiative he unbuttoned her dress and removed it over her head, but made no move to touch her. When she caressed him through his trousers he unfastened them and allowed her to do as she wished. She kissed him in places that had never received kisses before until he could stand it no longer.

"Now," he said urgently, "before I …" She lay back on the sofa and pulled him to her, him sliding to his knees on the floor. His climax was quick and exquisitely violent, leaving him gasping in her arms.

When he could speak again he apologised," I am so sorry. You didn't get a chance to…."

"I didn't need to, my love. Seeing you enjoying it so much was enough for me. Call it an engagement present."

Over toast and tea Monday morning Frances asked him about Rosalind. She was eager to hear about her and, although Foyle found this difficult to talk about at first, he was soon sharing details of their life together. He realised that since Rosalind's death he had built a wall of reserve around himself, allowing no-one to get truly close to him.

_'__Andrew is the only one with any idea of what I'm really like,'_ he thought_, 'but Frances is dismantling that wall, brick by brick. Every time I see her, speak to her, she gets closer.'_

"I wish I could have met her," said Fran, and when he looked at her quizzically continued, "I would thank her for looking after you and helping you to grow into the lovely man you are now."

_'__How generous', _thought Foyle,_ '__I wish I'd have met your husband. I'd have strangled him with my bare hands!'_

They left the flat together, Frances to go to her work and Foyle to begin his investigations. It did not take him long to find the witness who had named him to the police on the sedition charge, only to find that the name given was not his but someone else entirely. Finding Colin Fowler, whose name bore little resemblance to his save for the initials, was easy, but hearing his story was not; made homeless by the bombing, more than a hundred people had been sheltered in a school with poor facilities. Worse still was the fact that they had been overlooked, left there until the school itself had been bombed, resulting in many fatalities. Foyle was disgusted at the incompetence of the man who was responsible for this 'oversight'. However, the case of mistaken identity was solved as Foyle took great pleasure in telling Assistant Commissioner Rose later that morning. After asking a few questions Foyle was ready to return to Hastings, but before he caught his train he telephoned Frances' office and asked her to join him for lunch.

Over a sandwich, Foyle explained what he had found out and showed Fran the list of those who had died in the school bombing. She scanned the names, looked up and asked sharply, "What was the name of the chap who suspended you?"

"Collier. You noticed it too?"

Part way down the list were two names: Susan Collier (62) and Rosemary Collier (38).

"Do you think they're related?" asked Fran, "How old is your Collier?"

"Mid-forties, I'd guess," answered Foyle, "but why would they stay there, in disgraceful conditions, if they were related and he had a home they could have gone to?"

"Mm, perhaps they thought they'd be more useful there. You need to know if there's a connection."

"Yep, I'll get Milner on it tomorrow. He can ask some questions at Headquarters. Shame that Collier will be back here by then, though. " Foyle frowned, liking to tie up the loose ends himself.

.

The train journey home passed quickly as Foyle thought about his weekend.

_'__Tree climbing, disobeying orders and a marriage proposal! What has that woman done to me?' _he wondered happily.

His thoughts then turned to the mistaken identity case and the facts he had gathered. By the time the train pulled into Hastings he had a working theory.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Frances, having said goodbye to Christopher, had popped back to her office.

"I won't be back this afternoon," she told her colleagues, "I'm going to Somerset House."

.

.

It was a short walk along The Strand to Somerset House, a beautiful building near the river and home to the Registry of Births, Marriages and Deaths. A frequent visitor, in the course of her work, Frances loved the old building with its huge courtyard and arched windows. However, it was far more crowded now, since the Ministry of Supply had taken over a wing of the building. She made her way to the South Wing where the registers she needed were kept; huge volumes containing the indexes to all registered events since 1837.

Signing in at the familiar desk, Frances began her first task – finding the birth of Rosemary Collier, aged 38 in April 1940. Starting with the June quarter of 1901, she found the volume for that date and surnames beginning with 'C'. Using the stout leather grips on the huge book, she hefted it down from the shelf and onto a table.

_'__Thank goodness these are typed and not handwritten,' _she thought,_ '__so much easier to read and so much quicker.'_

Standing at the table she carefully turned the large pages until she found the 'Collier's, searched for a Rosemary, but also noted down any that had it as the second forename. That volume done she returned it to the shelves and started on the September quarter. She methodically worked her way through to the June quarter of 1902. Luckily Rosemary was not a common name in the early 1900s and Frances found only three, of which only one was in the London area; 'Rosemary S Collier 1a 306'.

Back at the desk Frances was delighted to see that Derek was on duty. She had had many dealings with Derek and the young man was always helpful and eager to please. She ordered a copy of the certificate for the London Rosemary and stressed the importance of speed.

Whilst waiting for the certificate Frances decided to go ahead with a search for James. Christopher had said he thought the man to be in his mid -forties so she started with the dates for a forty-five year old. The four volumes had some James Colliers but none in the London area. By now Frances' feet were aching from the standing but the volumes were too large to work sitting down..

_'__I'll stick with London for now,' _thought Frances_, 'and move onto other areas if I don't find him.'_

She moved onto searching the dates for the year before and year after her previous search. She was just finishing this when Derek approached bearing the requested certificate. She opened the envelope, experiencing the usual frisson of excitement that this action always brought her. Her instincts had proved correct – Rosemary Susan Collier, born September 14th 1901, daughter of James Raymond Collier and Susan Rebecca Collier, nee Merrick.

_'__And father's name is James,' _she considered, _'__chances are he named a son after him."_

She set about the search for James' birth again with renewed energy, and it was not long before she found a likely match – 'James R Collier, 1a 295'

It was nearly closing time when Derek produced the second certificate, and Fran's arms ached from hoisting the heavy volumes to and from their shelves. She took the envelope with shaking hands. She knew that there was every chance that this was completely wrong, but all the signs were positive.

.

.

She waited until after eight o'clock to telephone Christopher at home. Whatever fault had prevented her contacting him earlier appeared to have been mended as she heard his voice, "Foyle here."

"Christopher, did you have a good journey home?"

"Not bad at all. Didn't expect to hear from you so soon - everything OK?"

"It is. And I have some good news for you!"

..

The following day Foyle confronted Collier with the facts. Collier's mother and sister had been amongst the fatalities at the school, Collier had traced the man responsible for abandoning them to Hastings and, needing an excuse to be there, had framed Foyle in order to get him out of the picture. Collier had then caused the man's death, trying to make it look like suicide.

After dealing with Collier, Foyle had to reclaim his driver, Sam, whom Collier had returned to the MTC. When she had driven him home Foyle relaxed with a drink.

_'__I really need to tell Andrew about Frances'_ he thought. However the thought of his son asking awkward questions about his visits to Frances made him hesitate; he had tried to bring up his son to behave in a more gentlemanly way than he had behaved himself_. 'Damn it!'_ he concluded_, 'there's a war on, either one of us could not be here tomorrow. And don't we both deserve some happiness after the loss in our lives?'_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

It was late afternoon on Thursday when Foyle's office phone rang. He had just put on his hat and was halfway out of the door, considered not answering, then, with a sigh, "Foyle here."

"Is your spare room ready?" asked Fran.

"Always," he answered, his mood lightening at the sound of her voice "How are you?

"I'm ready to leave," she said, "My boss was very understanding, my landlady could rent out the flat ten times over, and everything is packed. You have got the stuff I sent?"

"Yup," said Foyle, thinking of the crates that had arrived earlier in the week and were stacked under his stairs and in the spare bedroom, "so when will you be here?"

"Six-thirty tomorrow evening. Is that alright?"

Foyle was delighted. He had intended to visit her again that weekend, would now see her sooner.

"I can't wait," he told her, "how am I going to concentrate tomorrow knowing you're on your way?"

Fran laughed. "Just think about tomorrow night," she breathed.

"That's exactly my problem!" he replied.

.

.

Friday seemed endless until at last it was six o'clock. Foyle sat back in his office chair and allowed himself to anticipate Frances' arrival. He was just imagining their reunion when, after a quick knock, the door opened. Hastily hiding his state of arousal under the desk he looked up to see Sam, his driver.

"Will you be leaving soon, sir?" she asked.

"Um, not sure," he replied, "but you go on home. I'll walk."

"Are you sure, sir? There are dark clouds coming in, it looks like rain."

"I'm sure. You go," he answered.

She left, allowing him to enjoy the sensations that Fran's imminent arrival had prompted.

.

.

Foyle left the office and strolled down to the railway station. Sam had been right about the rain; the first few drops fell as he arrived, and soon the hammering of the downpour on the tin roof was deafening. Fran's train pulled in and there she was, looking as adorable and desirable as always. She waved and then spoke to a porter. Foyle watched as several large suitcases and holdalls were unloaded.

_'__Taxi, then,' _he thought,_ '__especially in this weather!'_

"You've come to stay then?" he teased, indicating the luggage and wishing he could kiss her, loathe to do so in case anyone he knew should be in the station.

"If you still want me," was her reply.

_'__Oh, Fran, I want you so much.' _"Always, my love, always."

Foyle stood outside waiting for a taxi, but the dreadful weather had caused the usual few vehicles to have been taken. There was no way they were going to haul her luggage up the hill to his house, and he was considering his options when a familiar voice came from behind him.

"Sir, would you like a lift home?" It was Sam, still in the police car.

"Sam, what are you doing here?"

"Sorry sir, I had a few errands to run and the weather was so bad….I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. Very glad to see you. Come and help with this lot." He led her into the station.

"Frances, my driver, Sam Stewart; Sam, this is Mrs Frances Cartwright, a friend from London," he said, making no mention of their relationship, glad that Fran had picked up on this and was acting appropriately.

"Quite a lot of stuff, I'm afraid," he indicated the cases and bags, "Think we'll get it all in?"

"I should think so, sir," Sam had already picked up a couple of bags and was carrying them out. Between them they got everything and everyone in the car.

"Where to, sir?" came the familiar question.

"My house, please, Sam," said Foyle, "It's all being stored at my house." He hoped he'd given the impression that it was just the luggage that was being kept there. He looked sideways at Sam, but she was concentrating on the wet road, and gave no indication of being at all curious, most unlike her usual self.

By the time they got to his home the rain had eased a little and they were able to unload without getting too wet. Putting the last bag in the hallway, Sam asked, "Do you need a hand putting these away, sir?"

"No thanks, Sam, I'm sure I can manage," he smiled at her usual helpful hinting. "You get on home before the rain starts again."

"Yes, sir," she replied so smartly, he almost expected her to salute.

.

.

He closed the door and took Fran in his arms. "I thought she'd never go," he said, "and I so wanted to do this." He kissed her, gently at first and then with more eagerness. She was responding, making small sounds of enjoyment.

"Been waiting all day for you," he said softly, "I'm so glad you're here. Shall we start the tour of the house upstairs?"

Her hands were already undressing him as she whispered, "Mm, Christopher, I don't think I can wait that long."

They managed to reach the bottom of the stairs before succumbing to their mutual need.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

As they made love that night in his bed, Christopher spared a passing wistful thought for his late wife. He had removed her photo from his bedside table and replaced it of one of his son. He had come to terms, now, with his love for both her and Frances. The adage 'Life goes on' had been said to him many times after Roz's death but it was only now that it began to mean anything. He was moving on, and Frances was so different in so many ways that she made it easy for him to do so.

"Have you told Andrew about us yet?" she asked as she curled up against him.

"Um, no, can't seem to find quite the right moment. I know what he'll be like."

"Then _we'll_ go and visit him tomorrow afternoon and you can introduce me. You have to do it sometime!"

.

.

He had given her a tour of the house before cooking them a meal the previous evening, and felt acutely aware of how masculine and soulless it had become. He had assured her that she could make whatever changes she liked to make it more to her taste but she hadn't responded. They hadn't even ventured into the garden after the rain, but he was ashamed at how overgrown it was. "Neither Andrew nor I are gardeners," he'd told her, "Roz did all that; I'm afraid it's got to be a bit of a jungle." Now, in the morning sunshine, Frances had braved the nettles and explored the small area.

"It's enchanting," she said "I love it! I love it almost as much as I love you."

"Then it's yours," he answered with a kiss, "just as I am."

Washing up after breakfast Fran berated him about the state of the kitchen. "When did you last have a good scrub in these cupboards?" she asked and he had to admit that it was probably never.

"Then I shall tackle them this morning," she stated, "What are you going to do?" Christopher's thoughts of taking her back to bed vanished in the presence of such enthusiasm for housework and he considered going fishing instead.

"Fishing? Another thing I didn't know about you!" she exclaimed, "Whatever do you catch?"

"Lunch, if I'm lucky," he said and went in search of his rod.

.

.

Frances was up to her elbows in soapsuds when she heard the front door open. Not expecting Christopher back so soon she had tied her hair up in a scarf and searched through her bags for an old pair of trousers and a blouse, over which she had a crossover apron.

_'__What a sight I look,' _she thought,_ '__still, he'll have to put up with it!'_

A voice came from the hallway. "Dad, you here?"

_'__Andrew,' _she thought,_ '__his son, home from hospital….Oh God, what do I say?'_

Before she could think the kitchen door opened and a good-looking young man entered, a sling on his right arm.

"Oh," he said, "Sorry, I'm looking for Mr Foyle."

"You must be Andrew," she said, and when he nodded went on, "your Dad's gone fishing. I don't know when he'll be back. He wasn't expecting you."

"I know. I persuaded them to discharge me. I've been in hospital," he nodded toward the living room, "I'll wait in there, out of your way."

"Would you like a cup of tea while you're waiting?" asked Fran.

"That would be great if it's not too much trouble."

She made the tea and took it in to him. "I'm Frances Cartwright," she said as he took the cup, "It's good to meet you."

"And you, Mrs Cartwright," he answered, noting her wedding ring. Frances was grateful that her engagement ring from Christopher was safely in her pocket – that would have caused an awkward situation had it been recognised. "Thanks for the tea, I'll wait here and let you get on."

When Frances looked in some time later Andrew was fast asleep in the chair.

She had finished the cupboards and made herself presentable when she heard the door again. Quickly she looked out into the hallway with her finger on her lips. Christopher frowned, his face asking the question.

"Andrew's here," she mouthed, "he's asleep."

"Andrew? Here?" The implications dawned on him, "What have you told him?"

"Nothing, I've left that to you." She took the proffered fish into the kitchen, put the kettle on and tried hard to hear what was being said in the living room.

.

.

Foyle went in and sat looking at his son, who opened his eyes.

"Andrew. How are you?" Andrew looked pale and tired, but otherwise well.

"Not too bad but I couldn't stand staying in there. I was bored to tears. It's OK for me to stay here, isn't it?"

"Of course."

Andrew lay back in the chair, picked up his cup hopefully then put it down again.

"Your new cleaner made me a cup," he said, "Think I could have another, Dad?"

"In a moment. But first, um, Frances is not my cleaner."

"No? Who is she then?" asked Andrew casually.

Christopher took a deep breath, "She's the woman I'm going to marry."

Andrew began to laugh, stopped when he saw that Foyle was serious, "Dad?"

"I'll make the tea!"


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

Frances had already laid a tray ready with teapot, milk and two cups. Foyle kissed her gratefully and picked up the tray, leaving the door ajar as he left. Andrew was sitting, far more alert, his face full of curiosity.

The conversation was easier than Foyle had anticipated.

"She seems very self-assured, Dad," Andrew said, "and I take it she's a widow?

"She is, and had been for a long time," answered Christopher, "and she's worked to support herself since. She had a well-paid job in London."

_'__And she's given it all up for me.'_

"London? So where did you meet?"

"In The Palms Hotel," he began, "we were sharing a table because of repair work and, um, well, we …"

"Hang on, Dad, why were you staying there? Isn't that the one you were at when I went into hospital?"

"It is. That's when I was there," Christopher could see his son calculating.

"But that's only…Dad, you've known her for what, less than three weeks and you're getting married?"

Christopher smiled, thinking of how much had happened in those three weeks.

"It's all a bit quick, Dad. Are you sure you're doing the right thing?"

"Certainly am. You see, son, I love her," said Foyle, "About time you met her properly, don't you think?"

.

.

In the kitchen, Frances' heart soared as she heard him stating his love for her, the first time he'd declared it to anyone else. He came in, picked up another cup and saucer and, taking her hand, led her into the living room. Andrew was apologetic about his assumptions about her, relieved that she was not offended. Frances found him a modest and charming young man who, despite his questioning, had his father's best interests at heart. After a while she left them alone to chat while she prepared the trout for that evening's meal.

After lunch Andrew fell asleep again, giving Frances the opportunity to move her things from Christopher's bedroom to the small spare room at the back of the house. His face, when he realised what she was doing, was a picture of disappointment.

"I know, Christopher, I don't want to but we can't, you know, not with your son in the next room," she kissed him gently.

"There's one good thing," he replied, holding her close, "now he's out of hospital we can book the wedding. Next week suit you?"

.

.

Fran had stuffed the fish with stale bread and some herbs she'd found in the garden and baked it. Andrew was impressed.

"All Dad ever does is fry it," he laughed. Stories of culinary disasters followed with Christopher and Andrew making fun of each other.

_'__It's lovely to see him like this,' _she thought,_ '__there's so much more of him to get to know.'_

They talked all evening until Andrew declared that he couldn't keep his eyes open. Christopher went up with him to help with his sling and Fran could hear the murmur of their voices. She was pleased that Andrew had taken the news so well and began to think about the forthcoming wedding.

That night Frances removed the wedding ring she wore and tucked it away in a drawer. Once her protection from the unwanted advances of men, it was no longer needed. She had found, she believed, the very best man she would ever find.

.

.

Very early Sunday morning Foyle awoke in a state of arousal so hard that it hurt. He lay considering whether he could creep down the landing to Fran's room without disturbing Andrew. Eventually he decided to risk it. Throwing on his dressing gown he crept out of his room.

"Dad, is that you?" came Andrew's voice through his door.

Tying the dressing gown firmly, he opened Andrew's door and put his head round to see what was the matter.

"Dad, this damned bandage is loose. Can you give me a hand?" his son asked, looking embarrassed to be asking for help.

"Give me a minute," Foyle smiled wryly, remembering the last time he'd said those words to Frances, "Just need to use the bathroom."

.

.

They all went to church together that morning. Foyle had noted the missing ring, and smiled to himself. He said nothing but knew that it meant she had accepted him completely. After the service Foyle took the opportunity to introduce Frances to the vicar.

"Frances has done me the honour of agreeing to be my wife," he told the elderly man, "just wondered if we could arrange a date."

"Congratulations, Christopher. We could post the banns this week," the vicar began, but Foyle interrupted him.

"No need," he said, "I bought the licence two weeks ago; any time after Wednesday will be fine."

.

.

That afternoon was spent talking about the wedding which was arranged for the following Friday.

"Just a small ceremony, don't you think?" asked Fran, "I've no-one to invite who could actually make it here."

"Your brothers?" asked Foyle, "Won't they want to come?"

"I'll write to them, but there's only Joe and Mags who may be able to make it. This war makes everything so unpredictable doesn't it?" She smiled, "However, there are a couple of people here I'd like to invite."

"Here? Who do you know here?" Foyle was intrigued.

"Christopher! Only the person who made this marriage possible! Henri, of course, and Elsie."

Foyle's mind went back to Henri's words, 'She takes the time…some folk don't see us.' He was ashamed to admit that he hadn't thought of Henri. "But why Elsie?" he asked.

"Because they're married!" was her reply, "Didn't you realise?"

So it was arranged that Foyle would invite his sergeant, Paul Milner, along with his driver, Sam; Fran would invite Henri and Elsie.

"I'll plan for more, just in case Joe and Mags can come," she told him, as they sat at the table, she with her notebook.

"Plan what?" he asked.

"Well we can't ask people to a wedding and not have some kind of 'do' afterward, can we? I was thinking of a cold spread here after the ceremony. There's plenty of room, what do you think?"

Foyle thought it was getting more complicated by the minute but, seeing her enthusiasm, he agreed.

"I've just one special request," he said, rubbing his leg against hers under the table, "wear that dress you wore for the dance. I have fond memories of that dress."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

When Foyle opened the door to Sam on Monday morning she was her usual inquisitive self.

"Is your guest still here, sir?" she asked, looking round the hallway.

Foyle decided that partial honesty was best.

"She is," he said, "Andrew came home from hospital early and she's helping to look after him." That much was true, he thought.

"Right!" she said cheerfully as she got into the car.

.

.

With Christopher at work the following days Frances began work in earnest. Her first job was to walk up to the hotel and speak to Henri. He was delighted at her news and promised that he and Elsie would be there.

"I knew you'd hit it off," he said, "I can change the rotas, some people won't like it, but we can't miss this!"

Next was the house, which was cleaned and polished. Also, Andrew noticed, a few things were moved or disappeared, and others appeared. He realised that Frances must have brought some things with her from London and asked her about them. Frances took him up to the top floor, which had been unused for years, and he was astounded to see a good number of packing crates full of her belongings.

"It's like Aladdin's cave in here," he laughed looking at her, surprised to see her looking serious.

"Andrew, you are OK with your Dad and me, aren't you?" he asked him, "Please, you must say if there's anything you're not happy with."

"It was a shock, I have to say," he answered her equally seriously, "but I've seen the way Dad looks at you, and he's smitten. Just ….." he hesitated, "Just don't hurt him, please. He was so…, so broken when Mum died, I don't think he could stand it."

Frances' heart contracted at the thought of her beloved Christopher being so miserable.

She took his hand. "Andrew, I promise you I will never do anything to make him unhappy. He has brought me such joy and I …I know this sounds really silly but I feel as if I've always loved him, and I've only just found him." She blushed at the intimate confession.

Andrew remained silent but gave her a one-armed hug. He suddenly said, "Uncle Charles!"

"Sorry?"

"I ought to invite Uncle Charles and Aunt Muriel to the wedding," he stopped, suddenly embarrassed, "Uncle Charles is Mum's brother, Dad has no family of his own. Would you very much mind if I asked them?"

"Andrew, your Mum was a huge part of your and your Dad's life and that will never change. Of course you should invite them. Do it now!" She shook her finger at him like a schoolmarm.

Andrew laughed and went downstairs where she could hear him on the telephone.

"Yes, married! Friday, three o'clock, can you make it? Great! Oh, Frances, she's lovely."

Frances smiled to herself.

_'__Not only a wonderful man but his equally lovely son, how lucky can one woman get?'_

**.**

**.**

Frances was not the only one making preparations. Foyle had called Milner and Sam into his office and, a little self-consciously, told them his news.

"Congratulations, sir," Milner said, shaking his hand, while Sam hopped about excitedly.

"I knew something had happened!" she exclaimed, "You've been, oh I don't know, different, somehow."

Foyle cleared his throat, "Yes, well, Friday, three o'clock. We can all leave from here."

Sam looked crestfallen, "But, sir, can't I go home and change?"

_'__More complications,' _ thought Foyle,

"Yes, Sam, just be back here to drive us to church."

"And how will your, um, bride, get there, sir?" asked Sam, "She can't walk if you're being driven."

"Of course, Sam, you're right. You can drop us off and go and fetch her and Andrew, OK?"

"Yes, sir," beamed Sam, "Is Andrew giving her away?"

_'__Ye Gods, this was supposed to be a simple small ceremony. It's turning into ….'_

"No, Sam. No-one is giving her away. It's just an informal service," he said wearily.

Sam knew when to be quiet and decided to consult Andrew instead.

.

.

Frances spent most of the sunny Wednesday in the garden, which began to reveal some beautiful features and plants once the weeds had been removed. She even persuaded Andrew to help, making sure he checked before pulling anything out.

"You know, Sam, Dad's driver?" he said as they took a break with a cold drink, "She's asked me out for a drink tonight."

"How very modern of her," Frances joked. "So, are you going?"

"Mm, thought I might," he said, returning to his one-handed weeding, "I think Dad would appreciate me being out of the way for a while."

Fran blushed as she attacked a clump of nettles.

.

.

As it happened, Foyle was late home that evening; Andrew and Frances had eaten and Andrew had been gone over an hour before Christopher came in.

"Gone out?" he sighed when Fran told him, "Bless him. Fancy helping me with something upstairs?"

"Aren't you hungry?" she asked teasingly.

"Ravenous," he whispered, "come on."

Luckily Andrew stayed out until closing time, otherwise he would have found an assortment of clothing on the stairs and landing as they discarded them 'en route'. In Christopher's room Fran sat on the edge of the bed as he removed the last items.

"Oh, sweetheart," he breathed as he kissed her, "I thought he'd never give us a chance. I can't bear having you so close and not touching you."

"I know, my love. Why do you think I've kept myself so busy? Now get on this bed before he comes back!"

"Yes ma'am!" Christopher responded and was delighted when she pushed him back and sat astride him. "You're getting bossy, do you know?"

"Yep," she replied, "You need someone to take you in hand." She proceeded to do just that.

It was over far too quickly for both of them, but they agreed that there would soon be opportunities for far more leisurely enjoyment of each other once they were married.

.

.

Andrew and Sam, happily oblivious to the activities happening in Steep Lane, were making plans of their own for the wedding. Foyle had already, unbeknownst to Frances, asked his son for help with one particular task which Sam was happy to help with, and he told her the arrangements so far.

Sam was horrified that no-one was giving Frances away. "She can't walk down the aisle alone, it's just not done. Can't you do it, Andrew?"

"No, actually, I'm Dad's best man, you see, in charge of the ring."

"Well, there must be someone. Who else is invited?"

When Andrew went through the small guest list Samantha was fascinated at the inclusion of Henri and Elsie, and having heard the reason for their presence had her solution.

"You must ask Henri to do it," she told Andrew, "it's perfect!"

.

.

Frances and Christopher were both decent by the time Andrew returned, and if he thought it strange that his father was only just eating his evening meal he said nothing about it.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

Friday morning dawned as bright and sunny as they had hoped, even though breakfast was not so good.

"Sorry," Frances apologised, "All the rations have gone on the wedding breakfast; at least you'll get a decent meal later."

She was surprised and delighted when Christopher kissed her goodbye in front of Sam and told her that he loved her. Sam beamed delightedly, earning herself a 'look' from Foyle.

.

.

Frances had butterflies in her stomach all morning, but after lunch there was so much going on that she didn't have time to be anxious. It proved to be a day of surprises. The first was the appearance of her brother, Joe, all the way from Coventry, looking very pleased with himself and carrying two bottles of champagne.

"However did you get your hands on this?" asked Andrew, taking it to put in the larder.

"Don't let on," said Joe, "but it was given to us on our wedding day and we've kept it ever since. It'll be vintage by now."

"Isn't Mags coming, "Fran asked, "Couldn't her mum look after the children?"

Her younger brother and sister-in-law had three children.

"She's a bit under the weather, actually," Joe answered, "but she sends her love."

They spent a while catching up, then he tactfully went out into the garden so as not to be in the way.

.

.

The second surprise was a carefully carried box, brought by Henri and Elsie, which also disappeared into the larder. Henri was most understanding that the role which Sam had asked him to play was no longer needed. Fran had already arranged that Elsie would do her hair and all three disappeared upstairs, leaving Andrew to welcome the next arrivals. These were his uncle, Charles, and his wife who had somehow acquired a small joint of ham which joined the champagne.

Frances came downstairs, introductions were made all round. It was half past two when the guests left to walk to the church. Frances picked up the small posy of flowers which she and Elsie had picked from the garden and waited for Andrew who seemed to be busy with some last-minute task upstairs.

At last the car arrived driven by Sam in a blue dress that suited her perfectly. Andrew, having escorted Fran to the car, made a remark about being with the most attractive women in Hastings. Sam's reaction make Fran think that they seemed very suited to each other.

Joe was outside the church. Andrew kissed her on the cheek before he went in to join his father.

"Dad'll be knocked out," he told her, "you look great."

Surprised but delighted she took Joe's arm and stepped into the church porch.

.

.

Inside Christopher was waiting, having spent some time speaking to his surprise guests. He was touched that Andrew had invited his brother and sister-in-law, and happy, for her sake, that Fran's brother had managed to be there.

The music started, 'Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring', and he stood, turned to see Fran entering the church on Joe's arm, an expression of astonishment at the music, which she thought they had agreed was not necessary.

_'__Just as it should be' _he realised_, 'I'm so glad I persuaded Thomas to play the organ.'_

She looked wonderful in the lilac dress, as requested, with flowers of white, blue and purple and a small white hat. He took an involuntary step forwards, breathless at the sight of her. She smiled, just for him, and he knew that he was the happiest man on earth at that moment.

The ceremony was short, with no hymns or readings, and it seemed only moments before he was being told that he could kiss his bride, which he did with great tenderness.

They left the church to the strains of 'Ode to Joy', the next surprise awaiting both of them – a photographer, arranged by Andrew and Sam, standing ready to capture the event.

Photographs taken, eyes dried and hands shaken, Sam drove the two of them home, whilst the others followed on foot.

.

.

Back at 31 Steep Lane, Sam, as instructed by Andrew, left the newly-weds alone and waited for the others in the car, giving Christopher chance to welcome Fran to _their_ home and enabling her to give him his surprise, a signet ring with his initials on. They shared an eagerly awaited embrace and were still enjoying themselves when their guests arrived, forcing Christopher again keep one hand in his pocket as he welcomed them.

Tea was made, cold drinks were served and there was much chat and laughter as the group got to know each other. Sam, going into the larder to put out the food was astonished to find the ham and champagne; Fran was even more astonished at the contents of the box brought by Henri – a small but beautifully decorated wedding cake. The icing wasn't real, of course, but plaster that had been moulded over cardboard. There was, however, a real cake inside.

The afternoon soon became evening as the food was eaten, champagne was drunk and much enjoyment was had by all. Christopher made a short speech, thanking everyone, and making Frances blush by saying some very complimentary things.

At eight o'clock, Charles and Muriel found Foyle to say their goodbyes.

"We couldn't seem to find your charming new wife," said Charles, "Where's she got to?"

Foyle found her in the garden with her brother and went outside to fetch her but stopped, loathe to interrupt what was obviously an intimate moment.

"How much does he know?" Joe was asking.

"Everything, Joe, I told him everything, even about the baby….well, he sort of guessed, and he was so understanding. Oh Joe, he's amazing, so kind and gentle…I feel like I could burst with love for him."

"I'm so happy for you, sis, "said Joe, hugging her, "you've always deserved better than that …."

He was cut short as Foyle stepped forward, "Fran, love, sorry to interrupt but Charles and Muriel are leaving."

"Oh, right! I'm coming." Foyle stood aside to let her go in, found her brother at his side.

"Don't worry," Foyle assured him, "I'll look after her, after all, couldn't live without her now."

.

.

After that departure the others saw this as their cue, and the party broke up. Whilst seeing Joe off to his hotel Fran noticed something in the hallway.

"Andrew, why is your bag here?" she asked.

"I'm sleeping on Sam's sofa tonight," he smiled, "You don't want me here on your first night together, do you?" He exchanged an enigmatic look with his father.

_'__If only you knew,'_ thought Fran as she hugged him gratefully, "Thank you, Andrew."

.

.

When everyone had gone Fran started to clear the table.

"Leave it," said Christopher, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her. "'I've done the blackout, come to bed."

"But it's only half past…." The rest of her objection was silenced as he turned her to him and kissed her.

They climbed the stairs and Christopher had her wait on the landing while he entered the bedroom. A few moments later he emerged.

"Close your eyes!" he instructed her, and led her into the bedroom.

When she opened them she had her final surprise. The curtains were drawn but, in the light from candles in jars, she could see flowers everywhere; in vases, jugs and even an old teapot. The gramophone stood on the dresser; Christopher lifted the needle onto the record – Glenn Miller's orchestra playing Moonlight Serenade.

Fran had tears in her eyes_, 'Just like the movies,'_ "Oh, Christopher, my love, thank you so much."

He held out his hand.

"Mrs Foyle, will you dance with me?"

FIN

Hope you've enjoyed this bit of 'Foyle fluff' as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Many thanks to those who posted reviews – I do feel it helped my writing as I endeavoured to match your expectations!

New story starting soon, with a case of murder to be solved.


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